The Gauntlet
by Shellecah
Summary: An easterner seeks adventure in Dodge.
1. Chapter 1

Sherman Sims

I wondered if Emmie and I disembarked in the wrong town. We saw no whooping cowboys fighting and shooting in the air, no ruffians prowling about, no crowded walkways or wagons, buggies and riders teeming the streets. Nevertheless, the conductor had bellowed _"Dodge City," _so here we were.

Few people departed the train while a lesser number waited to board, and the streets looked deserted from where we stood at the depot. The sun blazed white and dust floated in the muggy summer air, so still that a tumbleweed at our feet did not stir.

The only activity in sight came from a bespectacled fellow directing two youths loading a wagon with provisions. The man watched us a moment as the boys worked, then approached us and tipped his hat to Emmie. "I got a wagon here if you folks need help with your trunks," he said.

"If you'll be so kind, sir," said Emmie. "We will be staying at Dodge House. Just leave it all at the clerk's desk," she said to the boys, smiling. "We'll be there soon." I handed each boy two dimes, which they pocketed with a nod and picked up our luggage.

"Dodge House is down Front Street a ways," said the man. "I'll walk with you, you don't mind. My store's further along. Jonas is the name. I sell the largest assortment of goods in town, no higher quality anywhere. You folks in Dodge long?" Mr. Jonas's nervous energy made me rather anxious.

"We'll spend the season here if there's anything out of the way to be seen in this town. I'm Sherman Sims and this is my wife, Emily. We write adventure stories."

"That so," said Jonas. "We have our share of excitement, that's sure. One minute sleepy and peaceful, the next it hits like a summer storm. You could borrow trouble if you hunt it down, though. It gets dangerous."

"I thrive on danger, Mr. Jonas," I said. "I think my best chance of encountering it is to accompany Marshal Dillon as he enforces the law."

"Matt Dillon is a legend in the eastern papers, Mr. Jonas," said Emmie. "We're very eager to meet him."

"Well, I don't know, ma'am," said Jonas. "We none of us see the marshal that way, himself least of all. And he might not take to being followed about."

"He may not have a choice," I said, "unless he throws me in jail for interfering with his job."

"He's like to do that if he tempers at you," said Jonas. This thrilled and alarmed me, since reports described Dillon as herculean.

Emmie wished to bathe and rest, so I saw her settled in our suite at Dodge House and headed for the marshal's office. The small brick building surprised me; I expected a two-story edifice.

One can find every sort of body in New York. I'd seen taller and much heftier men than the fellow lounging at the desk. He wore a _United States Marshal _badge, so he had to be Dillon, though he was clad like a cowhand in dusty clothes and unpolished boots. His chair was tilted against the wall, his eyes closed and long legs resting on the desk, ankles crossed. He opened his eyes and straightened up, sliding his boots to the floor as I entered.

Another man lay sleeping. I thought it backward, that a prominent frontier town had a bed in the marshal's office. As the man had no badge, I supposed he was an assistant or jailer.

"What can I do for you," said the marshal.

"Marshal Dillon?" I said, taking off my hat. He nodded. The fellow on the bed wakened, saw me, jumped up and quickly limped to stand near the doorway to the jail.

"My name is Sherman Sims. My wife and I just arrived from New York."

"You're a long way from home, Mr. Sims," said Dillon.

"We travel a lot, Marshal. My wife and I are adventure writers. The papers back east often feature Dodge City and the exploits of Marshal Matt Dillon."

"The papers exaggerate. I'm like any lawman."

"You're modest. I'd like to ask a favor of you, Marshal. I confess it's rather a big one, as I am a stranger."

"What's that."

"Mrs. Sims and I plan to stay the summer if I can find anything exciting to write about. I'd like to trail you around, witness some fights and shootouts or a duel or two. Some saloon brawls perhaps."

"Well forevermore," the man with the lame leg said in a quiet, polite tone.

Dillon pushed back his chair, rose and stepped close to me. I am medium height and his stature intimidated me, though he had a slimmer form than I envisioned. The newspapers called him a giant and I assumed he'd be burly, which was not the case. Considering my own light build though, I'd be at his mercy if I vexed him.

"That's an unreasonable request, Sims," Dillon said patiently, giving me the impression he'd dealt with his share of such requests. "You don't look like a fighter and you're not wearing a gun. I'd be responsible if anything happened to you, and I'd have to face your wife. Not only that, you might not see much. I try to break up fights when they start. There aren't many shootouts here because I run gunmen out of town, and I don't hold with duels either."

"Oh, but that's excellent, Marshal," I said. "You talk just like Emmie and I hoped. Emily. My wife. I observe the incidents and relate them to her, and she does most of the writing. I don't carry note paper; it's inconvenient and slows one down. I remember everything.

"I asked to join you as a courtesy, Marshal," I went on, feeling a breathless twinge of apprehension at my boldness. "I don't suppose I'll break the law if you forbid it and I do it anyway, as I fully intend to."

"Gracious," the marshal's companion said.

Dillon frowned. He looked annoyed and worried, though his face showed no harshness. "No," he said. "There's no law against making a pest of yourself. Unfortunately."

"Emmie looks forward to meeting you, Marshal," I said. I hoped he'd warm to the idea of my company when he saw how pretty, refined and smart my wife is. "Will you have dinner with us tonight?"

"I have nothing against dining with you, Sims," said the marshal. "But it won't change what I said about you trailing me."

"Where shall we eat?" I said.

"Best knowed place is Delmonico's," said the marshal's assistant, if such he was. There was no mention of him in reports on Dodge City. He at first seemed to me rather a bashful fellow, though I discovered he had a bold chatty side. "Not high-priced neither," he said.

"Delmonico's it is, then. Will you dine with us too, sir?" I said.

"Thank you," he said.

"You work for Marshal Dillon?"

"He's my assistant," said Dillon. "Chester Goode." I guessed, correctly as I found out, that despite his humble demeanor, Chester was the marshal's right-hand man, and thus a well of information if I could gain his confidence. Though his speech bespoke a scanty education, his eyes reflected a keenness that proved he wasn't feeble.

"I imagined you'd be out patrolling the town, Marshal," I said.

"Try Varieties Theatre, you want a show, Sims," said Dillon.

Maybe he was grumpy as I'd interrupted his nap. He was not the active lawman of the frontier narratives, and I was disappointed. I resolved to search for adventure on my own. "I would rather try your finest saloon. There is always something doing in a Dodge City saloon, am I not right," I said.

"Not hardly always," said Chester. "The days bein' so hot. Long Branch is the nicest in town. Might be most no one there 'til sundown, though."

"Walk there with me, Chester? I'll buy you a beer."

"Oh. Mr. Dillon?" said Chester.

"Go ahead, Chester," said the marshal.

"Does Marshal Dillon hold you to account for all your movements, Chester?" I asked as we walked to the Long Branch.

"Huh?"

"Must you get permission from him to go out?"

"He lets me go anywheres, 'lessun he needs me fer somethin'. So I ask 'im first, usual."

As Dodge City was known for violence, I thought Dillon's watch remarkably lax, though admittedly I'd seen no lawbreaking, nor anyone who looked remotely like an outlaw or gunman, though most men wore guns. I heard little talking, the townsfolk moved slowly and appeared to lack spirit compared to New York people.

I began to regret putting Emmie through the long wearying journey, and spending money we could scarcely afford on the stages and trains, and lodging at Dodge House. We weren't rich by any means, but she was accustomed to comfort and I'd give her no less. If I saw nothing of interest before retiring for the night, I would let Emmie rest a week, and we'd depart for New York and home.

My gloom deepened when Chester led me through the batwings into the Long Branch. Neat and clean except for a film of prairie dust, it was, like the marshal's office, smaller than I expected and more plain than fancy. There were only three people in the saloon—the bartender, a pretty red-haired woman playing solitaire, and a fellow at another table practicing card shuffles.

The woman looked up from her game with what I interpreted as an ennuied expression, and I sympathized with her, as I felt ready to flee Dodge after barely two hours there. Her fair face brightened when she saw Chester, and he moved to her table while I lagged behind.

The Long Branch seemed a torpid place. Only the woman interested me, as I wondered why she was there. She wore a fine blue silk, not a saloon gal's outfit, though her face was painted, and unlike Dillon and Chester, no dust clung to her clothing. Her grooming was flawless to stunning effect.

"Miss Kitty," said Chester, tipping his hat.

"Chester," she said. She gave me a curious, friendly look. I removed my hat and smiled.

"This here's Mr. Sherman Sims," said Chester.

"Miss Kitty," I said. "Delighted."

She returned my smile. "How d'you do. Can we get you a beer, Mr. Sims? First one's on the house."

"You work here, then, ma'am?"

"Mm-hmm. I own the place. Have a seat."

"Thank you. Chester's beer is on me," I said.

"You can buy him a second one," said Miss Kitty. "This round's my treat. Three beers, Sam," she called to the bartender.

"Thank you, Miss Kitty," said Chester, looking inordinately grateful. His hat was frayed and his clothes and boots old. As an assistant he must make less than a deputy, and at that I figured Dillon of necessity scrimped on his wages. Marshals do earn less than the job warrants.

As we sipped our beer and chatted, I noticed the fellow with the cards eyeing me. Though he had a knavish manner, I wasn't daunted by him. He looked like a punk, and was no taller or bigger than myself, which meant he likely wasn't much of a fighter. His fingers weren't adept with the cards and his face was animated, not signs of a skilled player.

"Who is that fellow, Chester," I said.

"That there's Norman Dade," said Chester. "A gambler. Don't do nothin' the day 'n night long 'cept play cards."

"He's not very good at it, either," said Miss Kitty.

"He steals for 'is roomin' an' food," said Chester. "You best watch out for 'im, Mr. Sims. He robs at gunpoint under cover of night, wearin' black duds and a black bandanna. Folks know it's him but cain't identify 'im of a surety so's Mr. Dillon kin throw 'im in jail."

"I believe I'll have a word with Mr. Dade," I said musingly. "Ask him what he's about, doing that." As I spoke, Dade chose that moment to fling his cards on the table and move to the bar where he talked to Sam, who poured him whiskey and regarded him like he was a stray mongrel the bartender wanted to swat away.

"Pardon me, Miss Kitty," I said, putting on my hat. I picked up my beer and went to stand beside Dade. He looked at me and gave a slight start, then sneered in my face. I met his eyes directly and he shrugged, blew rudely through his lips, turned away from me and took a drink of whiskey.

Unless I lied about my source of knowledge concerning his thievery, Dade would realize who the man was which informed me about him. I had no wish to make trouble for Chester, so I hatched a falsehood. "Mr. Dade?"

"What," he said.

"My name's Sherman Sims."

"So what."

"I met some townsfolk when I came in on the early afternoon train," I said.

"That's your problem," said Dade.

"They warned me about you, Dade."

He thumped his whiskey down and turned to face me. "What're you talkin' about," he said.

"They said you're that fellow who roams the streets at night dressed in black holding people up," I said.

"Whoever the deuce they are, they got no proof," said Dade.

"Then you're not the thief?"

"Why don't you mind your own business," said Dade. "You're a blamed troublemaker." He lowered his voice to a near whisper, so only I could hear him. "You'll be sorry you accused me," he said.

"I am not accusing you. I'm just curious who this robber is."

"Why," said Dade. "You some kind of lawman?"

"No. I write true adventure stories."

Dade snorted. "The worst breed of meddler. You'll learn not to stick your nose in my affairs, Sims," he said in the same hushed tone. I'm gonna teach ya."

I detected no menace in his eyes; his threats did not scare me. I figured Dade was the type who used his gun to frighten folks into handing over their money, but feared prison and the noose too much to pull the trigger.

Emily Sims

I knew who Marshal Dillon and Chester were when we entered Delmonico's, as Sherman had described them. I saw none of the ubiquitous prairie dust that Sherman said coated their clothing. They wore suit jackets, white shirts and black ties, and their boots were shined.

They rose as we approached their table, and I instinctively liked them. They looked unaffected yet gentlemanly, like many men in the region. Though Sherman said they were tall, Marshal Dillon was taller than I imagined, and I myself am an inch or so taller than my husband.

Even so, were I to encounter the marshal alone on a dark street, and he a stranger not wearing his badge, I'd go to him without hesitation, take his arm and ask him to escort me to my lodging place. Though Chester appeared just as trustworthy, I sensed a gullibility in him that made one feel more protective of him than in need of his protection. His smile was openly admiring, and I wondered how many women had used him to their advantage.

"Marshal. Chester," said Sherman, with the grateful pride in his voice whenever he introduced me, "This is my wife, Emily."

We exchanged greetings, and Sherman pulled out a chair for me. He and the marshal said a few words about the hot spell, then our party grew awkwardly quiet. Sherman is more observant than talkative, except about things that involve as well as interest him, and he looked uncomfortable.

Marshal Dillon on the other hand was clearly at his ease saying nothing, not only, I guessed, because Dodge was his home and he was in charge there. I felt certain that, unlike Sherman, the marshal would show the same confidence in any situation.

Sherman had told me that he coaxed Chester out of a timid reserve on their walk to the Long Branch, where he chatted freely with my husband in the company of Chester's friend Miss Kitty Russell. With the marshal and Sherman and me together though, Chester was diffident. He attended to his roast pheasant with mushrooms and baked potato and apple pie, seeming to think no conversation was expected of him.

"I want you to charm Dillon into letting me follow him about, my dear," Sherman said before we met the marshal and Chester. "That's why we're dining with him."

I could see the marshal was not the sort of man to be manipulated by any woman regardless of her charms, and I gazed round the dining room, wondering how Sherman and I would make it through supper, dessert and coffee. Chester enjoyed his meal, quite untroubled, and Marshal Dillon looked amused at our plight.

As I looked around, I met the cold forceful eyes of a strongly built man sitting by himself at the table next to ours. He leered at me and winked, then eyed Sherman as though hoping to cause mischief.

Sherman did not notice the man, but Marshal Dillon did. "Keep your eyes on your steak there, Coldwell, or I'll haveta ask you to leave," said the marshal.

"A man can't admire a pretty woman in this town?" said Coldwell. "You're out of your place, Marshal." The marshal gave him a warning look.

"Who are you looking down that pointy nose at, stranger," Coldwell said to Sherman. "You the lady's husband?"

"I am. Sherman Sims." Sherman perked up visibly, his intense dark eyes brightening with curiosity in his sharp-featured face.

"A lot of women are too short and delicate for a big fella like me," said Coldwell.

"Coldwell," said Marshal Dillon.

"Man like me needs a tall lady with a buxom yet graceful womanly figure, shaped just so." Coldwell outlined with his hands a female form. "Like you, honey," he said to me.

The marshal stood up, but Sherman, his face tightening in anger, reached Coldwell first and hit him. I don't think he expected it, as he made no move to duck the blow. I didn't know Sherman could punch that hard. Coldwell fell over backward in his chair and blinked in stunned surprise at my husband. Laughter filled Delmonico's, and some diners applauded.

Coldwell's face contorted with fury, and I gasped and jumped up as he launched himself at Sherman. Chester took hold of my shoulders, his touch gentle yet urgent, and moved me away from the table.

Marshal Dillon stepped in front of Sherman and hit Coldwell, who fell back again to the floor. The laughter in the restaurant grew louder, and some men yelled approval and stomped their boots. Coldwell reached for his gun, and with an incredibly swift movement, the marshal leaned over and snatched it from the holster.

"Now get out," said Marshal Dillon.

"That's not fair, Marshal," Coldwell snarled, climbing to his feet. "The dude struck first and you interfered. It's not your fight."

"What d'you expect, talkin' familiar to Mrs. Sims like ya did," said Chester.

"Not your fight either, Chester," said Coldwell. "Shut up or I'll bust your nose."

"Yeah, we'll see 'bout that," said Chester.

"You're not hitting anyone, Coldwell," said the marshal. "Get out of here or I'll throw you out on your hind end." He advanced on Coldwell, who took two quick steps back. "My gun," said Coldwell.

"Come by the office and pick it up when you cool off," said Marshal Dillon. "You look a speck riled, you don't get your gun."

"You just made an enemy, Sims. No man hits Thorne Coldwell and escapes without a beating, and you got one coming. When the marshal's not around to protect you," Coldwell vowed as he headed for the door.

"You alright, Mrs. Sims?" said the marshal.

"Yes, of course. I wasn't really frightened for Sherman or myself with you here, Marshal. I knew you wouldn't let that man hurt us."

"Thank you, Marshal," said Sherman. "I was ready to fight Mr. Coldwell as you saw, but I'd have ended senseless on the floor, and while such an outcome would heighten the drama of our Dodge City narrative, I would not like Emmie so distressed to witness it or me shamed before her."

"You could never shame me," I said.

"That's sweet of you, my love," said my husband. "But I'd feel the shame horribly just the same."

"I advise you to leave Dodge on the early morning train, Sims," said Marshal Dillon. "Thorne Coldwell can be mean, and he doesn't bluff. Like he said, I can't protect you every minute, and Coldwell spends most of his time in town. He's a carpenter here."

"How does a man like that attract business?" I said.

"He's a master craftsman, Mrs. Sims," said the marshal. "The best in Dodge."

"It's disgraceful, to be blessed with such talent and behave like a brute," I said.

"Norm Dade threatened Mr. Sims, too, Mr. Dillon," said Chester. "This afternoon at the Long Branch."

"Sherman," I said. "You didn't tell me about this Dade."

"He's not like Coldwell, Emmie. Dade's nothing, a dreg. He doesn't scare me."

"That may be, Sims," said the marshal. "But he'll likely track you some night and rob you at gunpoint if you stay in Dodge."

"Why don't we all sit back down and have another cup of coffee," said Sherman. "Here's the waiter, now.

"There are things going on in Dodge that are the stuff of raw western drama," my husband continued. "Coldwell and Dade are two examples, and I encountered them both today, so there must be more. Emmie and I will stay the summer. The best way to protect me, Marshal, is to let me keep company with you while you do your job. I am asking for your protection. It's your duty as a lawman."

The marshal's face hardened and his eyes chilled as he regarded Sherman. Though he doubtless wished he could run my husband out of town, Marshal Dillon was a gentleman and wouldn't voice his sentiment in front of me. "Alright, Sims," he said tightly, after a long moment. "But I can't guarantee you won't get hurt. You're asking for trouble to follow me."

"I make my living chasing trouble, Marshal. Or at least I try to," said Sherman ruefully. "The bulk of our living, and a scanty parcel it is, is given us by my father and Emmie's. It's mortifying for a man of thirty-six years to confess he's never made his way in life. I'm telling you as a bid for sympathy; I confess it," Sherman said. "So you'll be . . . perhaps more willing to tolerate me. My Emmie is so gracious and beautiful, I thought maybe when you met her—"

"_Sherman," _I said, unable to endure more. _"Really. _My father owns a thriving general store in New York, Marshal, and he's wanted Sherman to run the place since we married. I'll inherit the store when Papa passes on, and my parents' home too, as my brother is a tailor with his own shop and family. So you see, my husband and I are not in desperate straits."

I don't know precisely why I wanted the marshal to know our true situation. I liked and trusted him on little more than an hour's acquaintance, and was compelled to confide in him. I did not want him misled by my husband, and my pride refused to let Marshal Dillon and Chester think we were poor, as my father is a prosperous merchant and Sherman's a successful attorney.

"I've no wish to be a storekeeper. You know that, Emmie. And I'm not smart enough to practice law and join Pa as a partner," Sherman said childishly.

The marshal made no answer to all this, but looked entertained. His large sky-blue eyes softened and shone with amusement, and I felt grateful that his animus toward my poor husband had faded. I was drawn to Marshal Dillon's strength, the honor he exuded and his sound temperament.

"Do you sleep in the office nights, Marshal?" said Sherman.

"Sometimes," said the marshal. "I have a room at Ma Smalley's place."

"Then Chester bunks at the jailhouse," said Sherman.

"That's right," said the marshal.

"I wonder if I could sleep there, too," said Sherman. "Since those men threatened me, I think Emmie may be safer if we spent nights apart. The cells were empty when I visited earlier today; I could bunk in one of them."

"Why not stay at another rooming house," said the marshal.

"I don't carry a gun," said Sherman. "I never owned one and know nothing about using one. I see Chester doesn't wear a gun, but as your assistant he must know how to use them, do you not, Chester."

"I can hit my target," Chester said, not looking at Sherman.

"Coldwell won't know whether you're in the office on any given night, Marshal," said Sherman, "and if you aren't, he'll know Chester is there with a shotgun close by. Since Coldwell is a skilled carpenter as you say, and has enough business sense to earn a living at it, he must have some intelligence despite his defective character. He's not likely to attack me at the jail."

"You can explain anything," said Marshal Dillon. It was a cryptic statement, though the marshal is clearly a straightforward man. I supposed the vagueness of his meaning stemmed from the brevity common to westerners, particularly lawmen.

"Then you will let me bunk at the jail?" my husband said.

"Alright. But that doesn't ensure your safety. Men like Coldwell are irrational, no matter how smart he is. There's no telling what he might do," said the marshal.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherman Sims

I eagerly anticipated the night, I knew not when, that Norman Dade would choose to try and rob me. The marshal said Dade never shot or pistol-whipped his victims, so I carried no gun as I wandered Dodge alone at night, walking the darkest most isolated streets and hoping Dade searched for me.

Since Dade donned black garb which concealed his body in the darkness and covered his face with a black bandanna, he knew his targets could not beyond a doubt identify him, and so had no reason to shoot them. And he had no cause to pistol-whip them, as they feared he'd pull the trigger if they resisted.

I was afraid of Thorne Coldwell, who was brawny and forceful, and if his carpentry was any indication, sufficiently smart to take down his prey, but I did not fear Norman Dade. Dade and I were about the same size and both spare of form, and though I'm no fighter, I figured I could best him. He made a show to frighten, but a man his size could subdue him in short order.

Although Dade had a knack for evasion, he was hardly smart where it counted. He had no prowess as a gambler, no deftness even at shuffling cards. He'd expect me to cower when he aimed his gun, and I'd take him by surprise, disarming and taking him to jail.

The marshal should have captured Dade ere now. Though Dillon was a good man, and a fine lawman when he _did _perform his duties, he passed hours in idleness at midday, napping at his desk or reading newspapers as he sipped coffee, or lounging outside with Chester if the sun was not too hot, his hat pulled down to shield his face from its rays, while Chester whittled or practiced rope tricks, humming to himself. Dillon and Chester occasionally sat idling on the dusty walkway or in the dirt of the street when passersby made off with the chairs in front of the office, which happened often.

Dillon habitually visited the Long Branch at least once in the daytime and again at night, where he leaned on the bar talking to Miss Kitty, joined her at a table or went upstairs with her to her room. I still tailed him about and slept nights at the marshal's office, though he hadn't welcomed me and was wearying of me.

Now and then he snapped at me, or uttered some penetrating truth about myself in a low cold tone that felt hurtful, yet I believe he never intended to inflict hurt. Dillon could temper when provoked and was plainspoken, but not harsh. On the contrary, he had a kind, generous, tolerant nature. I think at times I irritated him past bearing.

I was restless, which made me pesky. After I spent a week in Dillon's company, the jail cells remained empty. The only walk-in reports were of burglaries, no holdups. No one reported a robbery by the black-clad thief thought to be Norman Dade, and I heard of no shootings in town. The marshal broke up five to ten fights every day and night, but the combatants looked clumsy and foolish and were often drunk, unlike supposedly true accounts of frontier fights in the eastern papers and books.

Rather than follow Marshal Dillon the night he rode to a farm to investigate reports of ferocious fighting among the family's many men, women and children, I went to the Long Branch with Chester, to the marshal's relief, I'm sure. Familial fights in my opinion are not worthy to be classed as adventure narratives, and the tortuous dullness of farms nullifies any thrilling thing arising on their grounds.

I'd thus far failed to befriend Chester as a confidence source, not that there were any secrets to discover under Matt Dillon's watch. He approached the job in a simplistic way for a U.S. marshal and was forthcoming with everyone, regardless of their situation or character.

Chester was a somnolent body who wouldn't trouble himself to be friendly with me, and I did not interest him besides. As I continued hours each day at the marshal's office and slept nights in the jail, Chester did frequently ask to play checkers with me or go to the pool house, but he likes those games and I suspected he was using me.

He stood close to Miss Kitty at the bar that night, at times chatting without pause, then lapsing into long spells of comfortable silence where he seemed content just to be near her. They smiled at each other every few minutes for no apparent reason I could see.

I treated Chester to three beers while I sipped the same glass of whiskey all night, and when he downed half his third mug he sighed noisily, put his arm around Miss Kitty and rested his face against her red hair. She pulled away from him and looked disapprovingly at me. "Take Chester home, will you, Mr. Sims?" she said. "Since you saw fit to fill him up with beer."

"Ah dint drink thet much, Mish Kitty," said Chester.

"Take Chester home to the jailhouse. Fine home for a U.S. marshal's assistant," I said, unsure why I said it.

"Yes well, can you go on and take him there?" Miss Kitty said impatiently.

"Yes ma'am. Come along, Chester." I tipped my hat to Miss Kitty.

I hoped as usual that Dade would appear and try to rob me so I'd have the twofold pleasure of catching him and inserting myself as a courageous figure in my Dodge City story. "What say we walk down the alley instead of Front Street, Chester," I said.

"Why," he said.

"For a change. Will you?" He regarded me with irritable confusion. If his head had been less muddled with beer, I think he would have refused me.

"Hmm?" I urged, pushing lightly at his shoulder.

"Wahl . . . . " he said, and let me lead him into the alley.

Excepting the omnipresent piano music, which commenced when the saloons opened and swelled to a crescendo at sundown, the night was still. I couldn't call Dodge lifeless, as sudden fights broke out day and night—in the streets and saloons, restaurants and shops, at the bank and post and telegraph office, but the fights normally lasted only a minute or two. Westerners I think are no hardier than other men; they either quickly crumpled in pain or were knocked out by their opponents, or withdrew from the fight after a few blows.

The town aside from the fights was much quieter than publicized, and except when aroused by an excess of bad temper, the men in general appeared sluggish, likely on account of the hot summer. I would perhaps have seen livelier happenings if Emmie and I visited Dodge at the planting or harvest seasons, when the cattle drives come through.

As Chester and I walked through the darkness, I heard stealthy boot steps crunching the dirt behind us. Chester was humming to himself, and I knew he didn't detect the steps through the beer fog clouding his head.

"Chester. Hush," I whispered, halting. "Someone is creeping up on us." Chester stopped humming, and we turned round.

A man dressed in black moved toward us, his gun at the ready and a black bandanna covering his face beneath his eyes. "Don't move," he said.

"I know who you are, Dade," I said. My heart started racing, not in fear but from exhilaration.

"You don't," said the man. "I'm not Dade. Hand over your wallet, Sims."

"I will not," I said. The thief's body jerked in surprise at my defiance.

"But Mr. Sims," said Chester.

"Chester," I said, as I'd heard the marshal address him when Dillon wanted no disagreement from his assistant.

"You're a punk, Dade," I said. "A shiftless nobody. You're through scaring and stealing from decent people." Boldness coursed through me and I felt strong. Having spent much time with Dillon, perhaps I absorbed some of his fearless spirit. Chester looked at me like I'd lost my senses. He knew I wore no gun, and neither did he.

"You fool ass. Give me your money or I'll shoot," said the man.

I grabbed his arm and yanked it over his head so the gun pointed at the night sky. Chester, who had some four inches on me and the robber, grabbed the gun barrel and pulled the man's fingers backward off the butt. He released the gun and Chester held onto it.

The thief tried to escape, and I tightened my grip on his arm. He struggled and I backhanded him. He stumbled and stood still, looking at me. I couldn't see his expression in the dark, but his shallow breathing showed he was afraid.

I pulled the bandanna down around his neck, took off his hat and led him by the arm to Front Street. Chester put the gun in his belt and followed. We stopped by a streetlamp where I saw the man's face clearly. It was bony with angular features, very large, round dark eyes, unruly dark hair and sand-colored skin with a grayish undertone.

"It's Norm Dade a'right," said Chester.

"Now then, Dade," I said. "We're taking you to jail."

He looked at me like a trapped rabbit, and I let go of his arm, thinking he'd surrendered. He leaped into the street and ran, and I overtook him at once, grabbing him again. Dade stomped his boot heel on the toe of my boot, and pain stabbed my foot, darting up my leg. He rammed his head into my jaw so my teeth rattled, and I lost my temper.

I turned him to face me, and felt a thrill as I realized that despite our equal size, I was the stronger man. I boxed Dade hard on his temple, swung my fist again and struck him on his other temple. He collapsed in my grip and I pulled him upright, vigorously shaking him. Even when he sagged in my hands, I kept shaking him, assuring myself that such was needful to drain the fight out of him.

"_Mr. Sims," _Chester said in dismay, and I stopped the shaking and released Dade with a push to his chest. He fell and lay motionless.

I met Chester's shocked brown eyes. He is a gentle soul; I wager he'd not committed a vicious act in his life. A profound shame descended on me, wiping out my elation at incapacitating Dade. "I never brutalized a man that way, Chester," I said. "I was just suddenly furious."

"Yeah," Chester said warily. "We best get 'im to jail." He leaned over Dade and tried to help him up. "He's out cold," said Chester. He straightened up and looked around.

"That gentleman, perhaps." I pointed to a robust fellow who looked less than twenty. "Hello there, young man," I said. "Be so kind as to give us a hand, won't you?"

The boy came over to us. "He shot?"

"No, he's passed out," I said. "He tried to rob me at gunpoint, and he must go to jail." The youth nodded, picked Dade up, and walked fast ahead of Chester and me.

When we reached the marshal's office, the young man had gone in and put Dade on the bunk in the far cell, since I'd outfitted the near cell as my temporary living quarters. Dade was moaning and stirring to my great relief, as I'd begun to fear I killed him. I thanked the boy, who nodded again and left, and Chester locked Dade in the cell.

Dade opened his eyes and looked around the cell with a sort of wild desperation. He looked at me, then shifted his gaze to Chester. "I'm sick, Chester," Dade said faintly. "That dude crippled me."

"I'll get Doc," said Chester. "What ails you, so's he'll know what ta put in 'is bag."

"My head and neck and back," said Dade. "I ache all over and I'm dizzy. I can't sit up."

Chester went for the doctor, and I stood looking at Dade. "Can I fetch you some water?" I said.

"Leave me alone," said Dade. "Killer."

"You won't die," I said. "The doctor will see to you."

"Maniac," said Dade. He yawned wide and shut his eyes, which I took as a sign, mistakenly I later learned, that he wasn't badly hurt.

Marshal Dillon came in then. "Sims," he said. "Who's in the cell?"

"It's Norman Dade, Marshal. Chester and I caught him when he held his gun on me and demanded my wallet."

The marshal looked in at Dade, who opened his eyes again. "Sims maimed me, Marshal," he said.

"Chester went for the doctor," I said.

Dillon's eyes narrowed a little and he gave me a searching look, as though seeing me for the first time. I figured he knew Chester had not taken the lead in capturing Dade. "Good work, Sherman," said the marshal, and grinned. "I'm obliged to you." I felt myself smile clownishly when he called me by my first name, but I couldn't help it. Then I quickly sobered.

"Something else?" said Marshal Dillon.

"I was too rough with him, Marshal," I confessed. "With Dade. I got angry while we tussled, and I punched his temples and shook him until he fell senseless. It shocked Chester."

"I'm sick, Marshal," said Dade. "Sims is an animal."

"Doc's coming," the marshal said to Dade.

"Not unusual to get too riled fightin'," Dillon said to me. "I've done it. Chester understands."

"You think so?" I said.

"He won't judge you," said the marshal.

Though Marshal Dillon and Chester and Miss Kitty had spoken of Doc, this night was the first I saw him. He looked at me as though considering whether to dislike me, and I figured Chester told Doc about the thrashing I gave Dade.

"I'm done for," said Dade, when Chester unlocked the cell to let Doc in. "Sims killed me, Doc."

"You'll live," said Doc.

"How d'you know?" said Dade.

"I'm a doctor, that's how. I can tell by looking."

Doc said Dade had a concussion from the blows to his head, and that I strained the bones in his neck and spine when I shook him. Doc gave him three spoons of laudanum.

"Ain't that a lot all to once, Doc?" said Chester.

"Won't hurt 'im any worse than he's hurt already," said Doc.

"This will stop the pain, calm your nerves and help you sleep," Doc said to Dade.

"Chester, give him two spoons whenever the pain comes back. You feel up to playing some cribbage?"

"Well, yeah, I reckon so," said Chester. "Ah put fresh coffee to bile while you was tendin' Dade. Go 'head an' set up the board there if you would, Doc, an' ah'll pour us all a cup. Ain't like ta play a lively game tonight, though. I drunk near three beers at the Long Branch an' um still a mite swimmy-headed an' a l'il wore down from what happened with Dade. Coffee'll perk me up, though."

"I didn't know you played cribbage, Chester," I said.

"I don't, much," said Chester. "It takes a heap thinkin' on."

"Set to a game, Mr. Sims?" said Doc.

"Thank you," I said. "Will you join us, Marshal?"

"No thanks. I'm gonna finish this coffee and do my rounds."

"I've not seen Thorne Coldwell since he threatened me at Delmonico's, Marshal," I said. "Perhaps he's wearied of waiting to catch me alone." Although an encounter by myself with Coldwell would make one of the best stories Emmie and I had penned, I naturally shrank from the thought, and my reasonable side wished he'd forget me.

"I hope you're right, Sherman," said the marshal, "but I doubt it. Coldwell's the kind who holds a grudge. I've jailed him a few times for beating a man. Not the same man, either. He's patient and he plans it out, and he'll wait a long time for the moment to attack. I suggest you stay here in the jail and keep trailin' me around 'til you're ready to leave Dodge."

I was grateful for Dillon's concern, yet his prediction about Coldwell chilled me. Since I pounded Dade's temples and ruthlessly shook him, a guilty foreboding tormented me. I deserved punishment akin to what I inflicted, and feared it was coming.


	3. Chapter 3

Emily Sims

When Thorne Coldwell called on me, Kitty and I were having tea with nut cakes and fruit in the arbor behind Dodge House. I saw Sherman only when we met at Delmonico's, as he feared for my safety if Coldwell caught him alone with me.

I missed my husband awfully and cried in our room. We had not slept together, nor spent any time by ourselves since Sherman struck Coldwell at Delmonico's for speaking lewdly to me.

Marshal Dillon is Kitty's beau and she his confidante. He told her all about Sherman and me, and what the marshal did not tell, Chester did. Sherman said Chester is Kitty's close friend, and an eager gossip when one can draw him out. Kitty knew how lonely I must be without my husband always near, so she visited me in my room at Dodge House and introduced herself, and came to see me most every day.

"My poor Sherman cannot let go of his remorse," I said to Kitty.

"Well, pining can't undo it," Kitty said. "Doc says Dade might mend over time. He's not worth Mr. Sims' remorse."

"Doc told my husband that Dade's brain swelled and jarred in his skull when Sherman gave him that dreadful shaking right after punching his head. It made his head weak and shifted some bones in his spine at the neck, and Doc put him on morphine. Sherman says Dade has dizzy spells and can't walk, so Marshal Dillon and Doc petitioned the judge to postpone his court date until he's stronger. Sherman says Dade is growing addled," I said.

"Dade was never right in the head," said Kitty.

"Poor Norman Dade," I sighed. "One can't help feeling for him. If the judge sends him to prison he'll surely die there, after suffering horridly perhaps. Sherman is ashamed to include Dade in our story but . . . we are writers, Kitty, so we must, of course."

Kitty's lovely blue eyes sparkled with mirth, her cheeks turned pink and she sucked in her lower lip. We smiled at each other, and I refilled our cups from the teapot.

That's when Thorne Coldwell stepped in the arbor. He wore a suit and tie, unlike the carpenter's work clothes he was dressed in that day at Delmonico's, and carried a box of pale polished wood. He had a hard face and flinty eyes, tight mouth and set jaw.

Kitty and I jumped up from our chairs. I knew Marshal Dillon believed I'd be safe from Coldwell as long as I was not alone with Sherman, and I trusted the marshal's judgment in spite of my fear. Although he'd rebuked Coldwell many times for saying lecherous things to women, none complained to the marshal that Coldwell as much as touched them. He was jailed only for beating men.

"Ladies," said Coldwell, holding up a big placating hand. "I won't hurt you ladies; I won't lay a finger on you. _Promise_. I am a pariah on account of you and your husband, Mrs. Sims. That is, I am sociably. My carpentry business does better than ever. I'm the best artisan in Kansas; the others are babes with toys compared to me," Coldwell boasted. "I can build a castle fit for a king single-handed, or create the most intricate fancywork.

"You know what the hotel clerk did when I asked where your room was, Mrs. Sims?" Coldwell went on. "He pulled a shotgun from behind the desk, aimed it at my chest and ordered me out."

"I'll be sure and thank him," I said.

"Come now, Mrs. Sims," said Coldwell. "Your husband hit me, remember? And instead of letting me hit back, that durn marshal chopped me another one."

"Coldwell," said Kitty, "Emily had nothing to do with that. She couldn't help what Mr. Sims and Matt did. So go away and leave her alone."

"I mean no harm to Mrs. Sims, Miss Kitty," said Coldwell, and took off his hat, as though the courtly gesture would reassure us. "Please don't be frightened, ladies. Women are always afraid of me."

"I wonder why," said Kitty.

"You're right, Miss Kitty," said Coldwell. "Mrs. Sims is not to blame. Just . . . I am a lonely man and everyone hates me. They only use me for my talent."

"Mr. Coldwell," I said, "if you would not say coarse things to women or beat men out of vengeance, you might find a good wife and make friends. You're strong and successful at your work, and look well as any man."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Coldwell. "I knew you were a fine woman from first I saw you, and not only because you're pretty. Sims is a lucky man, but he's also a freak, hiding behind Dillon, simpering about at the jailhouse and tagging along with the marshal and Chester. Don't think folks aren't talking, Mrs. Sims. You deserve better—"

"Will you get out of here," said Kitty.

"I will, Miss Kitty. If Mrs. Sims will accept this gift. Merely a little something I made in my spare time."

I desperately wanted Coldwell to leave. Despite his protestations that he was harmless, my mouth was dry, my chest hurt from my knocking heart, and the nutcakes and fruit churned in my stomach.

He held out the box to me and I took it, hoping he'd leave as he said. As he passed it to me, his hand touched mine and I felt its strength, his rough warm skin damp from the day's heat. "Tell your worthless husband I gave it to you, Mrs. Sims," said Coldwell. "Tell him, 'A man's home is his castle.' And tell him I'll be at the Long Branch." Coldwell put on his hat, tipped it to me and Kitty and left the arbor.

"Oh Kitty," I said, and she put her hand on my arm. "Matt won't let him hurt Mr. Sims," she said.

I opened the lid of the box. Inside was a small painted castle carved of wood. I lifted it out. It was heavy, sanded and oiled silky smooth before the paint was applied. The detail was striking; it was the best of its kind I had seen. "It's oak, I think," I said.

"He's one skilled craftsman," said Kitty. "I have to give him that."

"It's beautiful," I said.

"Let's go see Matt, Emily. He'll know what to do," said Kitty.

Holding the carving in its box, I walked with Kitty to the marshal's office. Matt Dillon sat at his desk as Sherman described him from their first meeting—his chair tipped back, legs on the desk and crossed at the ankles, his head resting against the wall and his eyes closed. Chester lay on the bed asleep, also as Sherman described seeing him on our first day in Dodge.

The door to the jail was open, and Sherman lay on a cell bunk napping with his boots on, which surprised me. He rarely dozed in the daytime, and when he did, he customarily took off his boots so as not to soil the bedding.

I knew the man lying on the bunk in the other cell was Norman Dade, though before now I hadn't seen him. Sherman told me Dade was about the same size as himself, and had grown thinner than Sherman since my husband beat and shook him. Dade somehow looked smaller than I imagined, and I felt renewed consternation at what Sherman had done to him. As inquisitive as my husband, I resolved to get a good look at Dade's face before I left the marshal's office.

Marshal Dillon and Sherman woke up when Kitty and I came in. Chester kept sleeping. The marshal quickly rose from his chair. "Kitty," he said. "Mrs. Sims. What is it?"

Sherman heard, and moved to me in alarm. "Emmie honey," he said, taking hold of my shoulders. "What's wrong. Are you ill?" I looked into his keen eyes, for some reason much aware at the moment that I am a shade taller than he.

"I'm fine, dear," I said. "They take good care of me at Dodge House. The desk clerk is quite protective. I'm very well."

"Kitty?" said Matt.

"I'm alright, Matt," said Kitty.

The marshal looked relieved, then said impatiently, "Well, what happened?"

Sherman drew back a little, giving me a puzzled, hurt look. "Why are you looking at me like that, Emmie?" he said.

"I'm sorry," I said. I kissed him lightly on the mouth and he reddened. "What's got into you, Emmie," he said.

"Nothing."

Kitty related what happened at the arbor, and Chester awakened as she finished talking. Flustered, he ran his fingers through his hair, pulled out chairs for me and Kitty, brought us water and asked if we wanted coffee, which we declined.

"That is the wretched carving the dog gave you, Emmie?" said my husband, his voice low and slightly trembling. "In that box?" Sherman's lean face tensed and his eyes glittered.

"It is," I said.

"Give it to me, darling. I will destroy it."

Holding the castle in its box, I pushed back my chair and stood to face my husband. "There's no need, Sherman," I said calmly. "I know this will distress you and I am sorry, but I'd like to keep it. I've not seen one better than this. It's enchanting."

Sherman scowled. "That's a foolish female notion. Give it to me at once, Emily."

"No. It belongs to me and I'm keeping it."

He tried to take the box from me, but I was prepared for that and held it tightly, feeling invigorated. "Don't cause a scene and scandalize us before the marshal and Miss Kitty and Chester," Sherman said as we wrestled. "Give me the blamed thing."

His accusation of impropriety made me mad, though not in a way to dampen my spirits. I welcomed the anger as it strengthened me, and I am strong already for a woman, while Sherman is weaker than many men.

He gave up, panting, and I relished my victory. I wasn't breathing hard at all. "That is abominably ill-bred," said my husband. "I wouldn't have thought it of you, Emily."

I slipped the box under my arm and slapped him hard. I'd done it before, though not often, and he wasn't shocked.

"My goodness," said Chester.

Still seated, Kitty raised her brows, drank from her water cup and exchanged glances with Marshal Dillon, who looked mildly taken aback at my temper but otherwise as composed as usual. The scuffle had wakened Dade, and he sat up in bed watching us. Sherman touched his hand to his face and looked very hurt, and I began to feel sorry.

"Coldwell said he'd be at the Long Branch," said the marshal, strapping on his gunbelt. "I'm going there to talk to him. You'd better stay here, Sherman."

"I'm coming with you," said Sherman.

"No," said Marshal Dillon. "You could get hurt."

"Emily is my wife, Marshal," said Sherman. "I have the right to face Coldwell."

"Alright," said the marshal.

"You want I should go with you, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester.

"No, Chester," the marshal said. "You and Kitty stay here with Mrs. Sims until I get back."

"Yessir."

Sherman put on his hat, then ran his hand tenderly over my hair, and I covered his hand with mine. "Be careful," I said.

"Don't worry," he said. He looked at the box I held against my side, and raised his eyes again to mine. "I won't rest until you get rid of that thing," he said. "If you do not, Emily, I shall burn it."

"Don't, Sherman," I said. "It's too fine to destroy. I'll give it away when I find someone who wants it." He shook his head and followed the marshal out.

"_I'm in pain," _Dade called fretfully from the jail cell, and I remembered I wanted a close look at him.

"Is it time to give him morphine, Chester?" I said.

"Right about, Mrs. Sims," said Chester. "Doc said every four hours."

"I'll give it to him if you'll prepare it," I said.

"No need to trouble yourself, ma'am," said Chester. "I'll carry it to 'im."

"It's no trouble," I said. "I want to do it."

"Well," said Chester, looking worried. He mixed a packet of morphine in water, handed the cup to me, and took the jail key from a peg on the wall.

I hadn't set down the box with Coldwell's carving, and Kitty watched me curiously. "Will you come, Kitty?" I whispered. "I'll feel easier if you do."

"Sure," said Kitty.

"I dunno why you nor Mrs. Sims wants ta bother 'bout Dade, Miss Kitty," said Chester. "Mr. Dillon maybe wouldn't like it."

"Oh, Chester," said Kitty. "Dade can't hurt us. He's helpless."

"Yeah, well," said Chester.

Dade was lying on his back when we moved to his cell. He looked like an ordinary sick man except for his very large, markedly round dark eyes. The eyes roved between me and Kitty and ogled us up and down while Chester unlocked the cell door, lingering on the rise of my ample bosom under my pale-blue silk dress, and the low-cut V of Kitty's dress trimmed with silk lace.

"This lady here's Mrs. Sims," said Chester, "an' you know Miss Kitty. Mrs. Sims gone give yer morphine."

"Hello, Mr. Dade," I said.

"That box what your husband wants you to get shet of?" said Dade.

"It holds a fine carving of a castle," I said. "I'll show you after you drink this."

"I need help to drink it," said Dade.

"Oh, you do not," said Chester. "You kin set up and drank it on yer own."

"I can't," said Dade. "It hurts too much when I set up. You got no heart for the wounded, Chester."

"Jest who tends you the day an' night long," said Chester.

"Stop yelling at me," said Dade. "Flunky."

"Mind your manners is all," Chester warned. "There's ladies here."

I asked Kitty to hold the box, lifted Dade's head and put the cup with the morphine to his mouth. He fixed his eyes on my face while he drank, then reached a grayish bony hand toward my chest.

Chester swiftly reached around me and smacked the hand down. _"Ow," _Dade yelped. Kitty snickered.

"I tole you mind yer manners," said Chester.

"If I could walk, you'd be dung under my boots, Chester," said Dade.

"Oh hesh up," said Chester.

I handed the cup to Chester, opened the box as Kitty held it, took out the carving and lowered it so Dade could see it from his pillow. He stared at it, his face still. I couldn't read his expression. "I got nothing," he said after a moment.

"I must give this away or my husband will burn it," I said. "So I am giving it to you, Mr. Dade. I'll put it across from the bed here, and you can look at it much as you please. It's yours, now."

"Reckon I won't mind takin' it off your hands," he said. "The box goes to me too, then. I can put my things in it." I felt an unexpectedly acute pity, like a sharp prick to my heart.

"You got no thangs," Chester said sourly.

"Chester, really," I said.

"What've you got, smart mouth?" Dade said to Chester.

"More'n you. I ain't locked in no jail cell."

"But you're crippled, and a lackey beside. You're nobody, so shut up."

I saw this last dart pierce its target as Chester lowered his head. Kitty had told me the marshal said Chester was conscientious and thoughtful tending Dade. Aside that is from scolding and smacking his hand, prompted no doubt from concern that Dade might insult me or Kitty.

"Emily, I've had more of him than I can take," said Kitty, jerking her head at Dade. "He was odious when he sat his carcass in the Long Branch like a dirt clod and robbed decent folk at night, and he's odious now. If I stand here any longer, I'll hit 'im."

"No call distressin' yerself over the likes a Dade, Miss Kitty, for heaven sakes," Chester mumbled.

Kitty gave me a reproachful look, then stepped close to Chester and touched his arm. "Come on, Chester," she said. "Lock him in there and we'll have some coffee."

"Miz Sims has to give me the box first," said Dade. "It goes with the castle, Miss high-and-mighty Kitty. Spirited woman like you needs taming. And I can tell you how—"

He stopped as Chester quickly moved to the bed and loomed over him. _"Shet yer mouth or ah'll gag ya," _Chester said.

Dade's eyes narrowed in stunned fear. "You wouldn't treat me like this if Dillon was here," he said.

"Ain't aimin' ta be stern," said Chester. "You try a body's patience past tolerable."

"Do I still get the box?" said Dade. "Mrs. Sims wants to give it to me."

"Please give him the box, Emily, so we can get away from this cell," said Kitty.

I set the box down by the head of Dade's bunk. "You can reach it there and put whatever you want inside," I said. He reached down and stroked the polished blonde wood with his fingertips, staring at me. I smiled, and he blinked and kept staring without returning my smile. Chester locked the cell and Dade looked at me through the bars, stroking the box.

The morphine soon put Dade back to sleep, and as I sat at the table with Chester and Kitty, I fell to worrying about my husband. I knew if anyone could protect him, that man was Marshal Dillon, who nonetheless had said Sherman might come to harm if he went with the marshal to confront Thorne Coldwell.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherman Sims

I was not afraid to face Coldwell. Marshal Dillon towered over me as we walked to the Long Branch, and though his build was more lean than broad, he radiated strength. He was warm in an unassuming way and reassuringly sensible. Beyond his presence, my anger at Coldwell for making advances to Emmie emboldened me.

"Don't fight Coldwell, Sherman," the marshal warned. "And don't provoke him. I'll handle it." I didn't answer. I _would_ fight Coldwell.

The Long Branch was empty except for Sam and Coldwell, who sat at a table drinking beer. Coldwell bared big white teeth in a grin when he saw us. "I wondered if you'd have the gizzard to show, Sims," he said. "You're not quite a coward; that I admit. So your lady told you I paid her a visit, did she? She's one fine woman."

I felt my chest heave and my fists clench. "Sims," said Dillon. Coldwell took a gulp of beer, rose and planted his boots apart. I rushed him. I knew the marshal wouldn't stop me, as Emmie is my wife.

Coldwell's fist rammed my gut. I charged right into it and collapsed. I couldn't breathe an endless moment. The pain was fierce, shooting to my fingers and toes as I writhed on the floor, hugging myself and gasping. My vision clouded and my head buzzed. The marshal's boot steps moved in fast.

"You saw it, Marshal," said Coldwell. "He charged me like a mad coyote; I just defended myself. All I wanted all these days was to hit him back after he punched me that day at Delmonico's. I'll leave him and Mrs. Sims alone now."

"Alright, Coldwell," said Dillon. I'll run you out of town if you go near him or Mrs. Sims again."

"I won't," said Coldwell. "I swear."

"Get out of here. You're through drinkin' for now," said the marshal.

I felt Coldwell's heavy tread through the boards as I lay on the floor. His steps receded, I heard him push through the batwings and knew he was gone.

"Bring us some whiskey, will you, Sam?" said the marshal. He lifted me under the arms and sat me in a chair. I streamed clammy sweat, breathing hard. Dillon removed my hat and put it on the table, loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar and took off my suit jacket, putting it beside my hat.

I was embarrassed but too weak to help myself. My arms hung at my sides and my mouth gaped as I sucked air like a hooked fish. I wished Miss Kitty were there or one of her girls. I'd have welcomed their help and not felt so mortified, but no women were in the Long Branch then, only me and the marshal and Sam.

Sam carried a tray with two whiskey glasses, a water pitcher and a clean folded cloth to the table. "Ice water," he said. Dillon nodded, and I guessed what was coming. I was helpless to protest. Sam soaked the cloth and vigorously rubbed my face, neck and head. The cold water shocked yet made me feel a little better. The marshal and Sam showed no unease. The shame was all on my side. They attended me with detachment, as though rubbing down a sick horse.

I thanked Sam, and Dillon sat at the table with me. I sipped my whiskey with a shaking hand. "My Dodge City tale will be very different than I thought, Marshal," I said. My voice sounded reedy to my ears. "I'm quite ready to leave your jail and return to Dodge House. I want to go home to New York, yet somehow I know it's not time for Emmie and me to depart this town. I've something more to do here."

"What's that," the marshal said.

I didn't know what I had still to do, though if I confessed as much to this practical lawman, he'd likely think me a fool. "Perhaps nothing," I said. "I am not thinking straight. That blow from Coldwell made me a bit ill."

"Doc goes to the jail afternoons to see how Dade's doing. He can look you over," said the marshal. I had a hazy notion that my impulse to prolong our stay in Dodge concerned Dade. The plan would take shape in my mind; I'd have to be patient.

I moved slowly on the walk to the marshal's office. My stomach was sore to the backbone and my legs wobbled. Dillon kept pace with me, looking closely at me every few yards. Expecting me to faint, I suppose, which I would _not_ do. I'd disgraced myself enough.

Doc was at the jailhouse, tending Dade in his cell. Emmie put her arms around me, knowing at once I was hurt. Gracefully formed as she is, she has wide shoulders and strong arms for a woman. I was comforted yet weakened by her embrace, but her soft warm body was too pleasing for me to pull away. "Come lie down," she urged. "At least until Doc sees you."

"I musn't. That bed belongs to Chester," I said nonsensically.

"Good heavens, Mr. Sims, go 'head an' lay down," said Chester. "I don't mind at all."

I let Emmie lead me to the bed and help me lie down. She stood over me, holding my hand, and Chester pulled up a chair for her.

"It's about time you got back, Matt," said Miss Kitty. "I can't sit here all day, ya know. I have to get ready for my night patrons. You'll come have a beer tonight?"

"I guess I'd better," said the marshal.

"See that you do," Miss Kitty said.

As Doc examined me, I asked him how Dade fared. "He's no better," said Doc, his fingers probing my ribs and belly. "No worse either."

I grunted, and Emmie anxiously stroked my hair. "It aches," I said.

"I know it does," said Doc. "I have to make sure nothing's ruptured, and Coldwell didn't bust a rib."

"Emmie gave Coldwell's carving to Dade," I said to Doc. "The castle. And the box it came in. Do you think, Doc, that might . . . sort of . . . strengthen Dade's senses?"

Doc pondered my question. "He's calmer than yesterday," he said. "Head's maybe a little steadier. Don't know how long it'll last, though.

"Coldwell's punch shook you up," Doc went on, "You'll have a bruise is all. A day's bed rest will set you right."

I knew abruptly like a lamp lighting why I wanted to stay longer in Dodge. I sat up on the bed and swung my boots to the floor. "My father takes charity cases in his law practice," I said. "He will represent Dade on his court date."

"Your father would travel from New York to Kansas to help a man like Dade?" said Marshal Dillon.

"He's most enthusiastic helping lawbreakers too infirm to survive prison," I said. "He'll come to Dodge directly when I wire him that _I_ wounded Dade. Pa will make inquiries to find the best public invalids' home, and pay for Dade to travel there, and for a nurse to go with him."

"Papa Sims _will _do that," said Emmie. "He'll believe it his duty. Oh, I _am _glad. You needn't feel guilty for injuring Dade, Sherman."

"Well, I'll try not to, Emmie," I said. "I won't feel nearly as guilty anyway. I hope you won't be distressed if we stay in Dodge awhile, my dear. We ought to stay and keep Pa company when he comes. We can rest and see the town sights. Our adventure here was . . . dramatically strange. We need to relax before we sort it out."

"Oh yes, Sherman, I agree," said Emmie. "Let's rest the summer and wait to write our narrative when we go home."

"I'll send it to you when we finish it, Marshal," I said. "Pa will pay the publishing if we cannot find a house to accept it.

"Mr. Jonas and Sam have small roles," I told the marshal, "and Doc too, unfortunately. Miss Kitty figures more, Chester appears throughout, and Marshal Dillon plays an important part in this true adventure. As he always does, sir."

"Well I don't know how true _that _is, or this story you're telling, either. But it won't trouble me to take a look at it," said Matt Dillon.

END


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